


The Grammarian's Guide to Slaying Vampires

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sports Night
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Sorkinverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-10
Updated: 2004-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can always learn something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grammarian's Guide to Slaying Vampires

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in Boston after Game 3 of the Sox-Yanks Series. [](http://alixnoorchis.livejournal.com/profile)[**alixnoorchis**](http://alixnoorchis.livejournal.com/) is the devil. She had to go and wonder if this could be done and, naturally, I had to do it.
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

She was born in Boston for chrissakes, she instinctively hates New York, New Yorkers, and most of all those fucking Yankees, so when she finds out the guy pinned up against the wall by his neck is a reporter from New York, here to talk about baseball, and mostly about how her Sox are down three games and it's do or die, she almost wishes she didn't have to save his ass. Serve him right for interviewing some guy wearing a Clemens Red Sox jersey outside of Fenway and not thinking that's strange. It ain't worth your life to back the AntiChrist around here.

Life. That's funny, because this vamp's dead and he's about to be deader. Deader? More dead? Faith screws up her face in concentration and tries to remember back to Mrs. O'Hanlon's class but all she can dredge up is the day she kicked Jimmy Murphy in the balls because he grabbed her boob in front of the whole class.

"Hey, Rocket. Is it deader or more dead?" The reporter guy claws at the vamp's hands, mouth opening and closing like a fish. It's cute when the victims try to help. "Just a sec there, Whitebread. Rocket and I are going to play a little game and then you can talk. So," she says as she grabs hold of the jersey and tugs the vamp back toward her. "Deader or more dead, which is it?"

"Is that really going to matter after I kill you?"

That's vampires for you, never willing to learn anything new. New plan: stake him ASAP, get Whitebread to The T, then call Willow and find out the answer. When she lets go of his shirt Rocket moves in toward the guy's neck. Faith shakes her head in disappointment; he's greedy and stupid, just like the other Rocket.

In one flowing motion she takes the stake from her back pocket and plunges it into his back. Rocket goes poof and Faith leans back to avoid the dust, but it snows down over Whitebread and he sinks to his knees, coughing and gasping.

"How you doing?"

He tries to answer, takes a deep breath, and immediately starts choking again.

"Shoulda warned you about that. Takes a while for the dust to settle." Got to get him off the ground just in case Rocket has any friends around here. "C'mon," she says, extending her hand, "You're just gonna keep coughing if you stay down there. Besides, I think somebody pissed right about where you're kneeling."

Whitebread jerks up from his crouch and studies his hands, brings them down toward his pants like he's going to wipe them off, then stops.

Faith laughs and gestures to his left with her stake. "You're not in it, it's just soaking up the dust, see?"

"Dust?"

There you go, he's coming back. Usually doesn't take long for the near-miss vamp snacks to start to forget about what just happened, and seems this one is right on schedule. He takes her hand and she pulls him to his feet then cracks up laughing when the first thing he does is straighten his collar and adjust his tie.

"Deader," he says, fingers fidgeting with the knot.

"Yeah? Really?"

"Dead is a one syllable word, not ending in y, therefore the comparative is deader. Though," he says, raking his fingers through the hairstyle that reminds her of that fucker Joe Buck, "I fail to see how something could be deader than something else."

"Like pregnant, huh?" Faith smirks when he frowns at her. "You either are or you aren't."

"Well, yes."

"You've got a lot to learn, Whitebread."

"Casey McCall."

He extends his hand and she figures what the hell and tucks the stake into the back of her pants and shakes. "Faith."

"What…?" He cocks his head toward the piss-soaked dust and screws up his face like he wants to finish the question but isn't sure how.

That. Right. Not her job to lie to the public. "That was someone who is now deader than he was a few minutes ago."

"Which statement presupposes he was previously dead."

Giles would polish the shine off his glasses if he could hear this conversation. Although he'd probably be proud over the whole deader/more dead thing, so maybe he'd just frown and make the ahem-ing noise.

"Yes. Deader than your average dead guy. And now he's the… deadest?" She's still not sure about this grammar shit.

"Superlative, yes, so deadest."

"Wicked!" She can hear people coming around the corner, sounds like two drunks looking to fuck or puke, and neither one makes her think vamp, so it's a good time to get Whitebread out of here. She turns her back to him and starts walking out of the alley. "Let's go."

He follows her for a good block before he starts talking. She peeks over her shoulder and he's got that notepad back out and he's scribbling on it. He doesn't notice when she stops and nearly smacks into her. "Whatcha writing there?"

"Notes."

"Got that. What about?"

Give him credit, he meets her eyes when he says it. "Things which could possibly be deader."

She raises an eyebrow. "And the kinds of _things_ that kill them?"

Takes him a long time to answer, he's busy folding the cover down over the notebook, capping the pen and tucking it into his shirt pocket, then the thing with the tie again, finally back to the hair.

"I don't think you're a thing."

Well lucky him. "Aren't you a sports reporter?"

He nods. "Sports Night on CSC."

"Well slaying ain't a sport."

"You move like a gymnast," he says. "But I didn't recognize the style you were using to fight."

"You oughta see B." Credit where it's due, right? And B's got the style even though Faith's got the balls.

The crease between his eyes deepens. "Slaying?"

#

 

He must write this down because no one will ever believe it. Not that he's telling anyone this when he gets back because Casey almost got bitten by a vampire is not exactly the kind of news Dana wants him to report and Danny, well Danny would never shut up. But, still, he has to know for himself. "You're a… Slayer?"

She looks bored when she nods, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders.

"And you're not the only one? Even though there can be only one?"

Faith rolls her eyes and stretches her arms over her head and Casey can't take his eyes off the patch of skin at her waist. She's tiny, smaller than she'd seemed in the alley, and rounder, curvier, than he'd imagined. Christ, Casey, shake it off. She's a little girl _and_ she can kick your ass.

"That's The Highlander. Ain't real. I'm real," she says, running her hands down the front of her body.

He swallows hard as her fingers coast over her hips. "Oh, of course. Immortals aren't real, but Slayers and vampires are."

"Yeah. You can tell because we don't have a TV show." She giggles, "Be wicked cool if we did, though. And it's not 'there can be only one,' it's 'into each generation is born a Slayer, the one girl in all the world' and some other crap I can't ever remember."

O-kay. He should let this alone now because he swears he can feel his brain melting. There is not the slightest chance that a vampire attacked him in an alley near Fenway Park. It's obvious he's been exposed to some sort of mind-altering chemicals. Possibly something the police sprayed for crowd control. "And Slayers slay… vampires?"

"It's my calling." She sighs and up goes the shirt, and her breasts, and his dick. Obviously he has a problem and it's quite possible he should start seeing Danny's psychiatrist because something about all of this is turning him on. "Look, are we done with this question and answer session, because I'm bored." She quirks a smile at him. "What do you say we get a drink?"

He hesitates before answering and Faith runs her hand up and down his arm, twisting her fingers under the cuff and rubbing them along his watchband. "Hey, I saved your life, Whitebread. The least you can do is buy when we hit the packy."

#

 

"And so then he winks at me!"

Whitebread's too busy laughing to notice the bottle that they've been passing back and forth while they sit cross-legged on the floor of his hotel room is empty, so she stretches across him to try and get at the other one. Closer, closer, almost there, nearly there, but her fingers close on nothing and, legendary Slayer balance or not, she's all of a sudden face first down in his crotch and Whitebread, well, he ain't so whitebread, if you know what she means.

"Uh… Faith?"

"Fell," she mumbles, then rights herself so she's straddling him, presses down into his lap and smirks when he twitches. "Gimme."

Her fingers close around José's neck and she tips him back and swallows. She can feel Whitebread watching her throat and mouth, can feel him growing hard beneath her, and, fuck, she spent the night slaying vamps and getting drunk and he mentioned he was a gymnast and a girl's got curiosities and needs.

She dangles the bottle in front of herself, leans forward and practically tit-fucks it. Girl's got to know her strengths. "Want some?"

"Yes."

"Tequila," she licks around the head of the bottle, tongue dipping inside for a taste, "or me?"

"Yes."

Whitebread grabs the bottle from her hands, fingers brushing her tits, and chugs. What's that Wes used to say? "False courage?"

"Yes."

"Just relax," she takes the bottle from him and screws the cap back on before rolling it away. "Lie back and let Faith do all the work." He laughs when she puts her palms on his chest and pushes him down to the floor and she's suddenly unsure and a little pissed. "Lie back? Lay back? Which is it?"

"You lie in bed, Faith. You lay me down and lie in bed."

"Whitebread," she laughs, rising above him, "I never _lie_ in bed."


End file.
